


Let the Right One In

by rosie_berber



Series: Spending the Holidays with Cas and Dean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Charlie Bradbury - Freeform, Charlie Lives, Cuddling, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Demons, Destiel Halloween Mini Bang, Except Charlie's alive, Eye Sex, First Kiss, Fluff, Halloween, Let the Right One In - Freeform, M/M, Motel room, Movie Violence, Pining, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Slasher Movie, Tooth-Rotting Cand Binging, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vampires, canonish, cuteness, destielhalloweenminibang, movie marathon, small touches, the exorcist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8360836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: Dean and Cas had just managed to beat the buzzer, sparing themselves from this trip devolving into some god forsaken holiday special - casting away a particularly nasty vengeful spirit with just hours to spare. The only creatures out to get him this Halloween would be confined to the silver screen within his and Cas’s Tacoma motel room. More excited about a monster movie marathon than a grown man should be, Dean turns to Cas with a grin as wide as a jack-o-lantern, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the angel’s face to wipe away some residual ectoplasm from their hunt.Or, How Dean and Cas Learn Life Lessons Through Monster Movies.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hatsonhamburgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsonhamburgers/gifts).



> Because she beta'd for me and I think her fics are just the best. So funny and sweet and insanely creative. Do yourself a favour and read everything she's ever posted.
> 
> After two failed attempts, I finally managed to actually post this! With the actual text of the story included! WINNING. AT. LIFE.
> 
> A canonverse fic at Halloween time. Except Charlie's alive, because I say so.
> 
> Also, please go check out some amazing art for this done [here](http://izulkowa.tumblr.com/post/152298380616/let-the-right-one-in-ao3-for-destiel-halloween)! Because it's amazing.

** **

 

**xxxxx**

 

         Seven shades of autumnal dusk pour through the Impala’s windows, vibrant hues of tangerine and violet painting themselves across the dashboard as the engine hums to silence. A satisfied sigh rises from his lungs through his lips when Dean sees it - the Red Box vibrant against the beige brick of the local Gas N Sip. He and Cas had just managed to beat the buzzer, sparing themselves from this trip devolving into some god forsaken holiday special - casting away a particularly nasty vengeful spirit with just hours to spare. The only creatures out to get him this Halloween would be confined to the silver screen within his and Cas’s Tacoma motel room. More excited about a monster movie marathon than a grown man should be, Dean turns to Cas with a grin as wide as a jack-o-lantern, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the angel’s face to wipe away some residual ectoplasm from their hunt.

 

         “Dean,” Castiel’s voice shakes as he shudders from the unexpected touch as a calloused hand grazes over the height of his cheekbones. He clears his throat as if to compose himself as he unlatches his seatbelt. “I am sorry, but I still do not think I quite grasp this tradition. Your brother and yourself have been hunting evil things for so much of your lives - since you were children, really. Surely these films cannot be pleasurable to watch? I mean, the inaccuracies alone must be irritating enough to-”

 

         Castiel is not allowed to finish his thought, as Dean’s fingers have once again migrated towards his face, this time pressing flush with the angel’s mouth. “Cas, buddy, you’ve gotta stop overthinking everything.”

 

         With his mouth covered, Castiel’s eyes are forced to do the talking. And the way they roll back in his head is some special effects wizardry, truly. Dean knows his interruption is deemed _not good enough_.

 

         And so, the hunter begins to mumble. “The truth is - me and Sammy - we didn’t get to…” As he searches for the right words to explain, Dean’s eyes bore into Impala’s odometer, reluctant to meet Cas’s gaze, ever intently turned towards him. “Growing up for us was different than most. Christmas was usually without a tree and sometimes without presents. The Easter Bunny - well that one always just gave us the creeps. And you know, turns out, trick-or-treating across a motel? Kind of a bummer.”

 

        As Dean guardedly guides Cas down memory lane, the angel finds himself closing his eyes, only for a second or two. It was easier to imagine that way. Reality gives way to a scene of his mind’s making, of the two brothers clad in cobbled-together costumes going door to door, rewarded with loose cigarettes and pens instead of the traditional treats typically associated with the holiday. Ever brief, and yet, the moment is its own kind of Hell. The daydream makes Castiel wish he still wielded the power Heaven once afforded him. That he could bend time and space, just a little bit, for the younger Sam and Dean, giving them one decent memory of pillowcases filled to the brim with the stuff of dentists’ nightmares.

 

         The smell of leather and the sound of the driver’s door opening pull Castiel’s attention back to the present. Their “B.M. scene,” as Marie would call it, was moving from the Impala’s interior towards its exterior. The angel rounds the car quickly to to take his place at Dean’s side as the hunter leans against the familiar steel. Without thinking, Dean rests a hand on the angel’s forearm, as if he was competing for Cas’s attention.

 

         He never was.

 

         When Dean speaks again, his breath turns into clouds in the cool air.

 

         “Cas, no matter where we were - we could always scrounge up a few bucks to spend on stuff to make our teeth rot. Every October 30th, the sun’d go down, we’d binge on junk food til we were near puking and we’d watch whatever scary movies we could find on TV. And every year - well, almost every year... There were those couple of years at Stanford where Sam had other plans - Dad and me would swap a few six packs for the sweets - but anyway, still, it doesn’t matter where we are, no matter what mess we’ve managed to find ourselves in that year - it’s one tradition we’ve tried to keep going.”

 

         Dean pauses and pictures his geek of a brother halfway around the world in some place that didn’t have the decency to recognize that cheap costumes and sugar comas were sacred, damn it. “I know it’s stupid. But stupid don’t mean it’s not fun.”

 

         Even though he has lived amongst mankind for nearly a decade, Castiel knows he still struggles with many of the subtleties of what it means to be human. But even he can tell that by the look in the hunter’s eye and the way his voice catches when he talks about Sam not being here - Dean’s feeling a bit blue about the whole thing. Not that Sam was being negligent - he was dutifully attending that conference in Mumbai alongside Charlie, hoping to “up his tech game,” as he so eloquently put it. But he is gone and Dean feels his absence. Castiel may not understand the appeal of blood and gore and terror when it seemed like they were always knee-deep in those things in real life to begin with, but he did understand one thing, loud and clear: this tradition was important to Dean. And Dean was important to Castiel, so he would try his best to be a satisfactory substitute.

 

         He calls no attention to the minor miracle that Dean has opened up and adequately expressed his feelings with very little prodding. Instead, he shifts the conversation to more pressing matters. “I am on junk food duty, correct?”

 

         And Dean? Well Dean can’t help letting out a chuckle as _his_ words leave Cas’s mouth. He might be a benchwarmer, but damn if he wasn’t stepping up to the plate. “Nothing with any nutritional value, you got it?”

 

         Castiel nods seriously as he accepts the assignment, walking towards his former place of employment with fierce determination. Dean moves to make his selections for the horrors that lie ahead, yelling one last critical piece of information just before the glass door shuts behind the angel.

 

         “DON’T FORGET THE PIE!”

 

**xxxxx**

 

         Castiel did not forget the pie. They simply didn’t have any. The display case had nothing but  three empty silver tins and a sign that apologized for being sold out. And so he searched the store’s shelves for other pastries stuffed with filling.

 

         “Dude, for the record, Fig Newtons are _not_ pie,” Dean says sternly, looking down at the florescent yellow box with unbridled disgust.

 

         Apparently, Castiel’s definition of what fulfilled the criteria for the hunter’s favourite dessert was far too liberal for Dean. The freckle-faced man continued to wear a pout as he rummaged through the plastic bags before deciding on an acceptable treat: an oversized, pumpkin-shaped sugar cookie, encased in a thick layer of supremely orange frosting. It was the sort of splurge purchase a seven-year old would plead with an exhausted parent at the checkout counter to make on their behalf. Dean takes a bite, the corners of his mouth turning upward as his sweet tooth is, momentarily, satiated.

 

         Castiel would be happy with this - watching Dean eat himself sick on foods designed for children - but he knows the hunter has other things in mind. And so just after he hangs his trenchcoat on the room’s solitary hanger (Dean, for his part, has thrown his leather jacket on the massive bed taking up the majority of the room’s square footage), he asks the question he knows Dean wants to answer.

 

         “So, what horrors await us?”

 

         Crumbs of cookie fall from Dean’s lips as he answers, snickering (perhaps already from the sugar high) as he holds three cases. “Demon, vampire, or just one really fucked-up dude?” The hunter has taken up residence on the shag-carpeted floor, his back pressing up against the bed. “Best seat in the house,” he insists, his laptop set up in front of him. Cas slumps to the ground to give the movies a good lookover, making space for himself next to Dean amongst his varied treats.

 

         “Well, since this is my first time,” Cas begins, wondering why Dean forcibly gulps at that precise moment, “why don’t we start off in my comfort zone?”

 

         Dean grabs the movies out of Cas’s hands, his fingers lingering against the angel’s for perhaps a moment or two more than wholly necessary. “ _Exorcist_ it is.” Dean smirks. “Glad you didn’t buy anything green.”

 

**xxxxx**

 

_Who's Captain Howdy?_

 

        Dean turns to assess Cas’s interest in the film just as Chris MacNeil asks the fated question. He’s got his right hand hovering over his lips, those lithe fingers bent and crooked as he thoughtlessly begins to bite at his nails. He takes a moment to appreciate the view - Cas captivated, surrounded by half-empty bags of potato chips and discarded candy wrappers (which Dean _had most certainly not_ demolished entirely on his own). _Beautiful._ Suddenly, Dean’s cheeks feel warm and his pulse begins to pick up its pace. _Beautiful_ . He couldn’t say it out loud - especially not now, not here, not doing this - but he lets himself think it, looking at the film as reflected back in unwavering blue eyes. _Cas is beautiful._

 

         “I am concerned for the well-being of this Regan character. Ouija boards really aren’t taken seriously enough.” The statement comes out in a hushed tone from Cas, as if he would be disturbing some other patron watching the movie. Dean tries, he really tries, to suppress the laugh as it bellows forward from his diaphragm. But the thing is, Cas is sitting there, knees huddled together, eyebrows quirked ever so slightly down towards his nose, nervous. And it’s just too much - Dean can feel the joy reverberating within pleading with him to get out.

 

        “Did I do something wrong again?” Cas asks, turning his attention away from the screen for the first time as Dean chuckles softly. Collecting himself, Dean finds himself studying the angel’s face. Those two perfect lines running in parallel across Cas’s forehead. The way his nostrils flare ever so slightly as he makes his inquiry. The sharp angles of his jaw, the way in which that jaw was dusted with a five o’clock shadow no matter the hour. The sincerity of those eyes - nearly navy in the darkness of the room. Those lips, the way in which they draw Dean’s eyes towards them now like they had so many times before. Dean knows Cas asked him a question and he’s struggling to remember what it was. Suddenly, Regan MacNeil isn’t the only one struggling with possession. The hunter shakes his head quickly, as if that is the secret to ridding himself of the thoughts that seem to flood his mind and body all at once without his permission, abrupt and all consuming.

 

        A shy smile creeps across his face as Dean lets his forehead drop to the angel’s shoulder. When the words come out, Dean is certain of one thing: someone or something else is definitely holding the reins.

 

        “Nah Cas. This - this is all right.”

 

        Reluctantly, Dean lifts his head. _This will not be another one of those_ , Dean tries to convince himself. Not another night filled with stolen glances and inadvertent touches and all those things that made Dean die a little bit. _Get a grip, Winchester. Watching scary movies inches away from another guy, from a friend, from your best friend, really - that’s as wholesome as it gets. Right?_

 

       During the time Dean takes to have that conversation with himself, Cas has turned his attention back towards Linda Blair’s unfortunate plight. The rest of the film passes on without incident, save for Cas’s colour commentary.

 

        “Oh dear. With a crucifix?!?”

 

        “That Pazuzu sure has a mouth on him.”

 

         “They really should have consulted some hunters on this - a devil’s trap would have been far more effective than many of the methods as adopted by these two clergymen.”

  


         

         Those moments are treasures Dean allows himself to keep.

 

         

 

**xxxxx**

  


       As someone with his fair share of parricide in the rearview mirror, Cas had to admit: he didn’t understand where Michael Myers’s bloodlust was coming from. Even Lucifer’s motivations were more nuanced - pride in his own power, seething hatred for the “hairless apes” - than this masked psychopath hellbent on terrorizing that nice lady from the yogurt commercials. The movie’s villain seemed to share that same fixation as so many preachers in their pulpits - punishing the minor indiscretions at which his Father would not, in actuality, bat an eye. Premarital sex and getting stoned weren’t exactly foreign concepts to Chuck. Or to Cas, for that matter.

 

       It was not as if the angel was some stranger to killing - neither was Dean. And yes, perhaps some of that bloodshed had been more righteous than others - but still, there was something … _distasteful_ about the antagonist’s motives. Cas gets so caught up in his internal diatribe that he didn’t notice the ominous score once again revving up, didn’t notice that pallor face lurking in the background.

  


       At precisely that moment, the boogeyman lunges forward.

  


       At precisely that moment, Cas lunges into Dean’s lap.

  


       Without thinking, Cas buries his head into Dean’s shoulder, eyes closed tightly.

  


       “Tell me when it’s over?” Cas pleads timidly into soft flannel smelling of sweat and cedar. He knows the words aren’t the sort a grown man should mutter to another due to some unwritten code Dean seemed to know by heart. Cas has watched apocalypses come and go, has seen cities burn and heroes fall. A slasher flick from the seventies shouldn’t have him running for cover. But when that cover is Dean’s body, unflinching from the contact, well, Cas feels a lot of things more powerful than embarrassment. And though bearing false witness against another is a grave offense, since he’s actually scared, it’s not really sinning to curl up a little closer to Dean.

 

       Castiel was sure he had died and gone to his own personal Heaven as Dean cradled him. When the hunter’s fingers begin to comb through his hair? A plane of existence better than Heaven must have been invented, because Cas . . . Cas is on a cloud beyond nine.

 

       “It’s okay Cas,” Dean whispers. “John Carpenter ain’t known as the Horror Master for nothing.” Cas lifts his head, somehow convincing his legs that _yes_ , they did need to shift off of Dean, that _no_ , taking up permanent residence within the hunter’s thighs was not an option. _Was it?_ He is expecting some sort of sarcastic smirk to adorn Dean’s face; he knew that particular teasing expression all too well. But all that meets him is honest to God comfort. Cast in the light of computer screen, Dean’s face looks soft, his jaw relaxed, no tension carved across his forehead. Cas lingers in the ease pouring from those emerald eyes, refusing to turn back towards the screen.

 

       “Dean…” he mutters, their eyes still aligned.

 

       “Yeah Cas?” Dean responds, shifting his body slightly, as if to say the angel had his full attention.

 

       Cas clears his throat. He does not know if it’s the adrenaline coursing through him (from the movie, of course) or the fact that his body seems insistent to hold onto the visceral memory of how perfectly he seemed to fit into Dean, but Cas feels bold. He slips his right hand into Dean’s left, articulating his plan in terms of survival.

 

         “If I’m going to make it through this, I don’t think we should split up. That seems to end poorly for these characters.”  

 

       Dean flashes a smile, sweet and small, a single nod his answer.

  
  
  


       After the credits have finished rolling, their fingers are still intertwined.

  


**xxxxx**

 

_October 30th, 2009_

 

       “Damn it Sammy. The classics are all gone. Who knew the good folks of Sheboygan had such impeccable taste?” Dean shouts out across the video rental store while juggling DVD cases and several varieties of Skittles. _Maybe_ **_this_ ** _was their punishment for springing Lucifer free_ , Dean thinks.

 

       Sam makes his way back from the small foreign film selection armed with his choice. “You know Dean, there are movies worth seeing released after 1983.”

 

       Dean responds to the retort with a blank stare. “It ain’t Halloween without John Carpenter, Samuel.”

 

       It wasn’t enough to have to listen to the same five cassettes over and over. It was as if Dean comprised a list of his desert island movies as well, perfectly content to watch the same ten films for the rest of eternity. Not that that stopped Sam on his Quixotic quest to expose Dean to new things. “Here - I heard this one’s good. Been meaning to see it. I think you’ll like it. It’s got vampires.”

 

       It’s not that Dean is some anti-intellectual who couldn’t keep up with subtitles. And, after all, he was the one who had introduced Sam to manga and anime. But traditions weren’t times to expand your horizons. So when he looks down at the not quite English scrawled across the case, he makes his evaluation clear in a single word.

 

       “Pass.”

 

       While Sam is competing for the distinct honour of the world’s most exaggerated eyeroll, Dean notices a kid putting a copy of _Evil Dead_ back on the shelf. Once again, Bruce Campbell saves the day.

  


**xxxxx**

  


       “Damn it,” Dean mumbles under his breath as the window pops up, informing him his battery has fallen below the ten percent threshold. “Gonna have to find an outlet if we wanna keep this going.” _The movies. Keep watching movies. That’s what I mean._

 

       But, if he’s being totally honest, that’s not all Dean wants to keep going. It started out innocent enough - keeping up the tradition was hardly a mere pretense. And yet, they found themselves back where they had been so many times before - where all semblance of personal space seemed to collapse. But before, those moments were brief and encumbered - eventually one of them forced themselves to turn from a held glance or a lingering touch.

 

       But not tonight.

 

       Tonight, maybe it could be more.

 

       And just like that, the space between his own lips and Cas’s is the most interesting thing. Dean lives in thrall of that space for only a moment. A chill snaps him out of his fantasy, brought on by a horror that has nothing to do with creatures that go bump in the night. What if Cas rebuffs his offer, calls it a night? What if everything Dean had thought and felt and convinced himself was mutual was nothing but a work of fiction?

  


       The speed at which Castiel moves towards the walls of the room searching for an outlet helps to cast aside some of Dean’s doubt.

  


       Eventually, a source that is bed-adjacent is deemed the winner. And so the men awkwardly shuffle towards the bed, performing a strange little dance to situate themselves what they imagine to be an appropriate distance from one another, neither willing to surrender to their presumptions. What they had found curled up next to each other on the carpet - the comfort they had let themselves have - it suddenly seemed so hard to emulate. But when they attempt their fourth maneuver to achieve the impossible - casual, relaxed and enough distance to leave room for Jesus - Dean decides he’s had enough.

 

       “Ugh, fuck this.”

 

       He begins to shove the covers of the bed down, propping his pillow up against the headboard, settling himself beneath the sheets. He moves the computer to his lap before giving a directive so clear, even the angel can’t misinterpret it. As his palm thumps the space beside him, Dean lets out a breath, smooth, steady and sure.

  


**xxxxx**

  


       Castiel’s lithe fingers slowly twist through the laces of his dress shoes as his mind tries to process what is happening. He’d really only felt the need to put what it was that he and Dean had into human terms since losing his grace. Before, _a more profound bond_ seemed to suffice to describe their relationship status. But there were some things about being human that seemed to stay with Cas even after he found himself once again fully imbued with all of his angel mojo. And one of those things was a pestering _need_ to know what he really was to Dean. _A friend? A brother? Or something else that those terms couldn’t hope to get at?_

 

       So as Castiel slides his legs beneath the low thread count sheets of this perfectly forgettable motel room that he suddenly wants to memorize each and every detail of, he’s wondering if tonight he will finally get his answer. After all, Dean had never invited him to share a bed with him - this particular piece of furniture had always been off-limits. But maybe now, maybe finally, _maybe more_? But as soon as he begins to hope, to look for answers in that language he and the hunter seemed to speak through glances, he notices Dean’s eyes are transfixed on the screen, having slipped the final movie in. Dual titles flash across the silent black screen. Their words seem to be a plea and giving permission.

  


LÅT DEN RÄTTE KOMMA IN

(LET THE RIGHT ONE IN)

  


       Cas had long ago learned (through a lengthy, tequila-drenched lecture) that there is some line between cool vampire movies and lame vampire movies established in Dean’s head. Even fictional vamps shouldn’t sparkle, Cas remembers the hunter insisting. But the criteria Dean had drunkenly established seemed inept at getting at what was going on here. And so Cas has to settle on his own feelings on what he’s seeing - strange, beautiful, macabre. The muted grays of Scandinavian skies. Endless expanses of snow interrupted only by blood. In fact, the only colour that seemed to exist in this grayscale world was that saturated red - running down porcelain necks, splattered across the white of landscapes.

 

       Blood had power.

 

       The thought pulls Cas away from the movie once more, back into his own body. Remembering how it first felt to experience the beat of this heart. How that rhythm seemed to be mastered by none other than the man sitting flush to Cas right now. How Cas’s heart seemed able to speak so many things to him. How he wondered if Dean’s could do the same. And so, as Eli and Oskar mutter their first words to one another, Cas drops his head to Dean’s chest. The angel lets his fingers tiptoe up the muscle of the other man’s thigh, feeling Dean’s blood, listening to what his heart has to say.

  


**xxxxx**

  


        Dean is at a loss. First with this movie - the one Sam had suggested they watch all those years ago in Wisconsin, the one Dean chose out of some twisted sense of nostalgia and missing his geek of a brother. For a film about bloodthirsty hellspawn, there is less violence and more introspection than he would have imagined. It’s not that he doesn’t like it - he actually does - it’s just- there’s all these quiet scenes and during those he notices little things. Like how Cas seems to be inching closer and closer. Like how he smells of honey and cinnamon even though he was only a voyeur to Dean’s sweets orgy.

 

        When Cas’s hand finally comes to rest on a decidedly non-platonic portion of Dean’s thigh, the hunter isn’t sure what to do. And so Dean tries to occupy his thoughts with anything but what the angel’s touch is doing to him in this moment. He thinks about the movie, about moral ambiguity and monsters. How the humans seem to have as much blood on their hands as those rocking fangs. It makes him think about Benny - about how he did a whole lot of good even though he wasn’t sporting a soul. About all the times he himself has killed - sometimes in cold blood. About how he sympathizes with the little vampire girl. Dean thinks about Buffy. How would she react to Eli? The Chosen One did kind of have a track record of letting certain vamps off the hook. How she seemed to adopt a more nuanced approach towards slaying once her heart dumbly made her go and fall in love with a supernatural creature.

 

        Dean looks down at the muss of dark hair pressed into his shoulder. He thinks about his own dumb heart and his own supernatural creature that could do no wrong that’d keep Dean away permanently.

 

         _Focus, Winchester. On anything but him._

 

        As if by divine intervention, it’s at precisely that moment, when Dean is trying to banish blue from his worldview, that Eli reminds Oskar, the human hopelessly in love, that she’s _not a girl_. She’s not human, despite their connection.

 

        It’s at precisely that moment Dean’s heart skips a beat.

 

        The absence, the void - it is a beautiful sound.

 

        It is a beautiful nothingness that Castiel can hear. He speaks its language and knows what it is trying to say.

 

        And he responds in full, nuzzling his nose against Dean’s neck, as if to reassure him that he would forever love the idea of human because of Dean.

 

        And would forever love this human.

  


       When the film finally ends, when Eli and Oskar go off into the night, accepting the life they can and will have with one another, Dean closes the computer screen. Cas lifts his head from Dean’s chest to look at the time, the red illumination a rare break from the darkness that now makes so much of the room imperceptible. It's past midnight and nothing has changed back into a pumpkin. _Real_. Not a spell, not a wish granted whose time has run out. His eyes lock on Dean’s, shimmering green even in the now near pitch black. Their constancy, the way Dean does not turn - it feels like an invitation.

 

        And so, rather than speaking of his lack of need of sleep, rather than making some excuse to tear himself away from the little home he’s made in the curves of Dean’s body, Castiel acts.

 

        He closes that distance - one that was so small and immense all at once - his lips softly landing on Dean’s own.

 

        Cas’s very human heart races when Dean kisses back, his lips firm - a lingering sweetness still palatable.

 

        It only lasts for a few seconds. They are the most precious seconds of Castiel’s long life. His eyes open just in time to catch the way Dean’s eyelashes are fluttering, the way the corners of his lips turn up nervously, ecstatically.

 

        “Happy Halloween, Dean,” the angel huffs, the heat of his breath cast against Dean’s cheek.

 

        _Happy._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I love your little comments and questions. I might even have a thing for hanging out with people in the comments section. Come by and tell me what movies these two should have made out during. Real talk: I have seen only ten to twenty horror films. Because I'm a scaredy cat.


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